by David McDine
“O Lord God, when Thou givest to Thy servants to endeavour any great matter, grant us also to know that it is not the beginning but the continuing of the same until it be thoroughly finished which yieldeth the true glory.”
Captain Wills looked around the table and repeated slowly: ‘Continuing until it be thoroughly finished … Is that clear?’
Then to muttered agreement he snapped the book shut and left without further ado.
Anson took a seat and looked at each man in turn. Their faces were anxious but they appeared to be the sort of men you could rely on and he broke the silence and provoked nervous smiles with: ‘Now, I reckon God’s got his hands pretty full so I try not to bother him too much myself, gentlemen, but I have to admit that having singed the King of Spain’s beard at Cadiz and helped see off the Spanish Armada, Drake’s words were worth hearing.’
Pausing for effect and a subdued chuckle, Anson told the men: ‘I suggest you introduce yourselves and then we’ll work out how we’re going to steal your ship back for the King!’
10
Strike the Red Flag
With Rook at the tiller and Anson crouching in the thwarts, a long-barrelled sea service pistol in his belt, the boat was rowed back down the Medway.
It was a long haul for the oarsmen but at last they rounded the Isle of Grain, opposite Sheerness, and emerged into the Great Nore anchorage.
Now, with oars muffled, the boat was rowed as silently as possible through ships of the line, frigates and store-ships, all seen merely as shadowy outlines on this pitch-black night.
From one they could hear the scrape of a fiddle, singing and snatches of raucous laughter. But others lay totally silent like great wallowing leviathans. And as they slipped past one, someone threw a bucketful of gash over the side, narrowly missing the boat.
Thank the Lord the boat’s crew knew where they were going, Anson thought, when at last they shipped oars and graunched alongside a three-decker, HMS Euphemus he guessed.
Ignoring the normal rule of senior officer last in, first out, it was Rook who signalled Anson to stay put, gripped the netting hanging from the ship’s side, and disappeared up into the darkness.
Anson presumed, correctly, that he had gone to report the success of their mission and to warn the ship’s company that the neutral officer they had requested was about to board.
There was a low whistle from above and one of the oarsmen nudged Anson and pointed upwards. He rose, gripped the netting and hauled himself up.
After what he had been through over past weeks it was a great effort to claw his way up and he arrived on deck gasping for breath and feeling weak.
A small knot of men awaited him and Rook introduced him, curtly. ‘This is Lieutenant Anson. He’s not been involved in all of this and we have the admiral’s word that he’s all right and wants to help us.’
There was a murmur of acceptance and the bosun muttered: ‘Let’s go below, boys, and sort out what needs to be done.’
But as they passed others on their way below Anson noted that there were some with sullen, suspicious looks. Clearly the desire to end the mutiny was not universal.
In the captain’s cabin Anson was introduced to the sailing master, William Sadler, and the sergeant of marines, the stocky Devonian Josh Kennard. Both, he knew, would be key to the business in hand.
The bosun’s mates and Kennard and his marines could, he hoped, be relied upon to keep order and confine any malcontents who showed signs of giving trouble.
And having the master on board was a godsend. Navigation was Sadler’s province and hopefully he knew his way around the estuary mudflats, which Anson certainly did not.
The senior warrant officer on board, the master was appointed, like the bosun, by the Navy Board rather than the Admiralty. Anson was familiar with his role – setting courses, finding the ship’s position, supervising the pilotage – and that most important duty to “represent to the captain every possible danger in or near to the ship’s course, and the way to avoid it.”
As temporary, unpaid, acting captain, Anson sincerely hoped the latter would apply this night.
But, shaking the man’s hand, he confined himself to saying: ‘You and I will likely have a busy night, master.’
Sadler nodded nervously. ‘Can’t say as it’s going to be easy, sir. Everything’s agin us.’
Anson immediately sensed the man’s lack of confidence was going to be a problem and hoped it wasn’t catching.
Gratefully accepting a chair, Anson declined the offer of a drink, and, looking around the enlarged group, told them: ‘Let’s be clear, gentlemen …’ his use of the word was deliberate, ‘… if I am to take command and help you take the ship in there must be no drinking. It’ll be tricky enough stone cold sober. I’d be obliged, Mister Rook, if you’d kindly place reliable guards on all sources of liquor.’
The bosun signalled across the table and Sergeant Kennard sent his corporal to make it so.
Anson paused to let the drink ban sink in and detected no opposition.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s also be clear that I understand the requests that have been made by the delegates and the reasons for them, and, I can tell you, I am not unsympathetic.’
There were murmurs of approval and he decided to level with them. ‘Look, I was in Portsmouth a while back and let me tell you if you didn’t already know, that the Spithead men got pretty well all they asked for. I know because I carried the Admiralty’s response down there.’
Puzzled looks were exchanged around the table and the men’s leader held up his hand.
‘Yes, Mister Rook?’
‘We were told you weren’t involved. You were like, neutral. But now you tell us—’
Anson checked him. ‘Look, I happened to call at the Admiralty to sort out my next ship. They needed a messenger boy and I was lurked for the job. Until I got to Portsmouth I’d no idea what I was carrying.’
He sensed this was a critical moment. If they lost confidence in him now, all would be hazarded.
Looking around at the doubting faces, he raised both hands to halt the muttering. ‘The problem here, gentlemen, is not that I was a reluctant messenger, but that just when the pardon and most concessions were being granted to the Spithead men, the Nore so-called delegates chose not to believe assurances that the same applied to all of you …’
‘We know that,’ Rook accepted.
‘But now that they’ve decided to try and blockade London and some are even advocating sailing to join the French, well, like most of you, I think that’s more than a step too far to put it mildly. They’re playing into the hands of the enemy and putting the whole country in peril.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ the bosun agreed. ‘We ain’t at war with England, are we boys?’
The rest assented and Anson knew the crisis had passed.
He told them: ‘Like you, I serve King and country. I have no truck with disobedience and mutiny, and seeing as how you sent to ask for help to bring the ship in, I believe that most if not all of you share my view. Is that so?’
Heads were nodded and there was a consensus of agreement around the table.
Anson breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Very well, then let’s get to the task in hand. Master, we’ll need to take her in under cover of darkness, otherwise the rest of the fleet might fire upon us when they smoke what we’re at …’
Sadler nodded. ‘That’s right, sir. But, like I said, it won’t be easy. There’s lots of mudflats. All the channel markers have been sunk by Trinity House and they’ve moved the Nore buoy and lightship. We’ll be going in blind …’
Anson only just managed to stop himself exclaiming ‘Good grief!’ It was news to him that all the navigational aids had gone, but he readily understood why. The Trinity House men were responsible for the provision and maintenance of these aids and had no doubt been prevailed upon to make life as difficult as possible for the mutineers. Without the markers and buoys it would be difficult, dangerous even, for
the mutinous ships anchored near the mudflats to manoeuvre, and many were effectively trapped.
He could see that the pilot’s warning had cast doubt among the others and realised it was a time to be forceful. ‘Mister Sadler, I am aware of the degree of difficulty, but our task is to take her into Sheerness. You are right to voice these warnings. It’s your duty to do so. But attempt it we must, and you are key to that.’
‘But if we go tonight the tide will be against us, sir.’
‘Tide, or no tide, we’ll take her in anyway.’
Sadler looked boot-faced, but there was nothing for it. The ship’s company were for breaking free and if he was able to pull it off he would be safe from the noose himself. But he could not stop himself from muttering: ‘It’ll be more than my repitation’s worth if we end up stranded on a mudflat …’
Anson ignored the whinge. ‘Right, gentlemen, let’s get to it, but I’d like Mister Sadler, the bosun, and you, sergeant, to hang back for a moment to go through a few points.’
The rest got to their feet and left talking animatedly among themselves.
Once alone with the select group, Anson told them: ‘Gentlemen, this is the situation. We are going in whatever it takes. Sergeant Kennard, kindly make sure that those of your men who can be trusted are armed, and I would like you to stick close to me.’
The sergeant looked daggers.
‘What’s wrong, sergeant?’
‘All the marines can be trusted, sir, even the micks.’
Anson smiled and said with exaggerated gravity. ‘Of course! I meant no disrespect, and certainly not to our Irish marines! In uncertain times like this one forgets to give credit to those upon whom we can always rely.’
Somewhat mollified, the sergeant excused himself to gather his men.
Anson turned to Rook. ‘You tell me there are many others among the ship’s company you can truly depend upon, so kindly send them on deck. I want no piped orders and you must pass the word for every man to go about his duties quietly. If we attract the attention of the other ships we’ll be dead in the water.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
The bosun clattered away but Anson held Sadler back. ‘Now, master, let’s take a look at the chart and check our position and our best course. I confess to being thoroughly disorientated after being rowed here in the dark.’
Sadler produced a chart and they pored over it by the great cabin’s flickering lantern light.
Anson took a coin from his purse. ‘Kindly mark our position and take me through the best course for the dockyard.’
Sadler looked doubtful.
‘You are not, I hope, about to tell me that you don’t know our position.’
‘Not for certain, sir. You see, like I said, the Trinity House people have got rid of all the navigational markers, deliberate-like, to confuse the mutineers.’
‘Good grief! So we don’t know where we are, nor where we’re going?’
‘Not rightly, sir, no. Of course, I know roughly where we are …’
He hesitatingly placed the coin on the chart and then moved it inch or two, adding, in a somewhat exasperated tone: ‘The trouble is we’ve been swinging around at anchor for a couple of weeks or more and the mudflats hereabouts are, well, changeable-like. Very confusing at the best of times—’
‘And these are not the best of times?’
‘You could say that, sir. Like I warned at the meeting, everything’s agin us, tide and all.’
‘Nevertheless, we have no choice but to make a run for it, so let’s get to it. We’ll weigh anchor and get under way before dawn else we surely risk being fired upon by ships still loyal to the delegates.’
****
On deck, preparations were being made in almost complete silence lest nearby ships caught on to what was happening.
Anson watched in the thin pre-dawn light until the sailing master reported to him that all was ready. ‘Very well, Mister Sadler, set fore-topsail.’
The master turned to the bosun and repeated huskily: ‘Set fore-topsail.’
Rook passed the order to waiting foretop-men who began clambering silently up the rigging.
But from high above came a shout: ‘On deck there! I’ll blow the brains out of any man that so much as touches a sail!’
Anson cursed inwardly. So much for keeping silence …
Every eye went up to where a figure was spotted on the top yard, brandishing a pistol.
Rook muttered savagely: ‘Who the devil’s that and where did he get that pistol?’
The man shouted: ‘On deck there! Take no notice of this bleedin’ orficer, mates. He’s been sent to make us betray our brothers. If you take the ship in you might as well put nooses round your own necks. Long live the mutiny!’
There were some cries of support from men who had been hanging back, but most of those on deck shouted them down. The bosun muttered: ‘It’s that bloody fool Clegg. He must have got at the armoury while we were ashore. And the spirit locker, likely as not. The daft bastard’ll alert every ship in the fleet!’
He cupped his hands and shouted: ‘Come down Clegg! The mutiny’s a dead duck and we’re taking the ship in, whether you like it or not. Get yourself down here. Now!’
‘Come and get me if you like, but I’ll take you to hell with me!’
Sergeant Kennard stepped forward with a primed musket and aimed it at the man, shouting: ‘I’ll count to ten!’
He began to count and there was stalemate until he reached nine. But then there was a ragged cheer from the loyal hands on deck as Clegg lowered his pistol and the waiting foretop-men recommenced climbing the rigging.
The marine sergeant was taking no chances and called up to the man to throw his pistol down. After a moment’s hesitation he did so, but as it hit the deck it went off with a loud crack. The ball flew harmlessly out to sea, but everyone on deck froze. The shouting may well have alerted other ships, but the shot was certain to have been heard, drawing unwelcome attention to Euphemus just as they were about to get under way.
Silence was pointless now and Anson told the bosun: ‘Order them to look lively now. We are living on borrowed time.’
But the bosun’s shouted encouragement was unnecessary. Aloft, gaskets were cast off and the sail billowed down on the restraining clew lines, buntlines and slab lines.
In turn these were let go, and on deck below men at the sheets and braces trimmed the canvas. All eyes were on the foretop-sail which flapped and then drew.
Anson turned to the master. ‘Weigh, Mister Sadler.’
‘Weigh it is, sir!’ And, without needing orders, the waiting men, led by the marines, swarmed to the capstan and took up their positions half a dozen to each of the twelve bars, with two more on each swifter – the ropes that linked the bars.
This procedure, Anson knew only too well, was going to take time. The cable was too thick to be turned round the capstan, so its lower spindle on the gun-deck below was used to receive a messenger rope. As the anchor cable came through the hawse hole, temporary lashings – nippers – were used to attach it to the messenger which was then wound in via the capstan.
As the anchor rose, the lashings had to be reattached near the hawse hole and the recovered cable fed down a hatchway to the orlop deck for storage, and there were more than enough willing hands to do the manhandling.
Another group was already positioned on the forecastle, ready to hook the anchor ring with the cat tackle when it broke surface and secure it to the cathead.
And the nippers – the youngest hands whose job was to nip the anchor cable to the endless belt activated by the capstan – were standing ready.
But Anson was far from confident. However well-schooled the men were this was a tricky operation at the best of times and could easily become chaotic if they came under heavy fire and the urge to take cover became irresistible.
He looked up and saw that the first streaks of dawn were now clearly illuminating the red flag still flying at the main masthead.
/> ‘Bosun!’
‘Sir?’
‘Strike the red flag and hoist the royal standard. We’ll take her in wearing the King’s colour, no less!’
11
Under Fire
But as the red flag came fluttering down and the royal standard was run up to mark their departure from the mutinous fleet, it was clear from distant shouts that the move had been spotted from at least one of the nearby ships.
A gun barked and the ball splashed a few yards ahead of Euphemus. It was followed seconds later by another from a different ship, and then a third opened fire. These were warning shots but it was clear that they were in imminent danger of coming under sustained fire.
The master looked to Anson and cried out in alarm. ‘If we delay weighing anchor we’re dead ducks!’ And, stating the blindingly obvious, he croaked: ‘It’s dawning and they have our range, sir.’
Anson deliberated for a few seconds. It was true that raising the anchor would take time – time they did not have.
Dawn was indeed breaking, but abandoning a valuable anchor went against the grain. However, there was always a possibility that it could be recovered from these shallow waters.
‘Very well, Mister Sadler, I hear you. Bosun, cut away the anchor, but mark its position with a buoy.’
‘Aye, aye, sir! There’s a buoy already attached.’
Rook sent a seaman to fetch axes, snatched one and began chopping away at the thick rope cable. Two others joined him, swinging their axes in turn.
After a dozen blows it parted and the severed end splashed down into the muddy water, temporarily dragging the buoy under with it. Immediately the filled fore-topsail impelled the ship forward with a shuddering lurch to the cheers of the loyal crewmen on deck.
Anson watched as the buoy bobbed to the surface marking the anchor’s resting place and braced himself against the ship’s forward movement.
The break for freedom was under way at last. Now that their intention was clear the time for warning shots was over and he steeled himself for the real thing.
